


Memento

by RussianWitch



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mild S&M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Slice of Life, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 22:38:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10863546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: The sight of Illya, half naked and slouching against the doorjamb could be weaponized. The sight of him doing so while toying with a crop, big hands delicate where they caress the leather...





	Memento

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd

 "Cowboy?" Illya's voice has a tinge of predatory amusement that has Napoleon actually opening his eyes, and stop trying to convince himself that he's still asleep.

The sight before him sends, not unpleasant, chills down his spine. The sight of Illya, half naked, slouching against the doorjamb, could be weaponized as far as Napoleon is concerned. The sight of him doing so toying with a crop, big hands delicate where they caress the leather could bring nations to their knees.

Napoleon is sure he'd put the toy far enough away, that casual snooping couldn't unearth it. "For future reference, it is traditional to bring breakfast in the morning," he drawls fighting the urge to sit up, give Illya the impression that he was hiding something.

"You hate me cooking," Illya shrugs, sauntering over to the foot-board of the bed to trail the tip of the crop along the edge of it.

It had taken Napoleon a year to trust Waverly enough to get some of his things out of storage. To surround himself with his precious mementos and treasures again instead of keeping them carefully hidden in case his 'bosses' changed their minds about loaning him to the Brit's operation. Bit by bit he'd taken them out, decorating his flat, even going as far as sharing some of them with Peril the few occasions they had downtime.

The crop is—a memento, a reminder that sometimes, some people can be trusted. He hadn't needed to pick it up in years, hadn't been able to really, but hadn't felt the need for it either. Napoleon wonders what the universe has against him, to have the yearning return at the sight of Peril—

"Pasha?" Illya asks, the predator melting away, as doubt sets in, and the crop drops disappearing behind his leg.

Napoleon wonders if Illya knows how to wield it if someone instructed him during his training or—

"Napoleon!" The Russian demands, kneeling down on the mattress the hand that had been playing with the tip of the crop coming to rest on Napoleon's naked abdomen, "what is problem?" His eyes narrow, his hand kneads Napoleon's skin, warm and rough with callouses, cruel hands that are always so very gentle on Napoleon's body.

"Why were you going through my things?" He asks, ignoring the hand raking through the hair on his chest.

"I was bored," Illya shrugs, "your things interesting," he lays the crop across his lap tracing the length of it with a finger, "very well made," he judges with some admiration. "How does it—handle?" he asks, looking down at the crop, and this—shyness, has something twisting in Napoleon's belly.A hot itch starts at the small of his back.

A hot itch starts at the small of his back.

"Wouldn't know, exactly," he shrugs as best he can against the pillows.

"You would not?" The Russian looks up sharply, his hand tightening around the handle, the hand on Napoleon's chest trembles, and he should be afraid—Illya's hand trembling usually means Napoleon and Gaby have to duck for cover, and hope someone will be left breathing by the time Illya calms down, for them to interrogate. He'd been on the receiving end of Illya's rage a long time ago, to experience it again after having experienced the kinder side of the man...He rolls over curling towards the sitting man, pushing the sheet off to expose the old scar curling around his hip.

"You asked me what the scar was from before, it wasn't this crop, but—I was young, stupid and someone tried to take advantage."

Blue eyes turn stormy gray as Illya listens to the explanation, "who?" He growls, and Napoleon wraps a hand around his wrist, habit taking over.

"No one who matters," he shrugs, "it was a long time ago, and I was rescued before things could get too much out of hand." He'd ended up walking away with a scar, and a mentor who'd knocked some sense into him before letting Napoleon loose on the world.

"You had someone beat you?" Illya asks incredulously, frowning at Napoleon like he's seeing him for the first time.

"Yes," he doesn't elaborate, bracing for the moment Illya will finish processing, stand up and walk away.

"Why?" The Russian asks, no disgust in his voice that Napoleon can hear. Still, he drops back onto his back ending up with Illya's hand, he'd forgotten he was holding, back on his abdomen. The situation is far from ideal for any kind of serious conversation, but Illya isn't likely to let it go now that his curiosity has been fanned.

"Because—I like it," he could try to explain in hundreds of ways, to play his words off as a joke and Illya might even believe him. But that course of action would leave him with the picture of Illya's hands caressing the whip burned into his mind, a thought that he won't be getting rid off anytime soon, and already Napoleon can't look away from Illya's hands.

"You like—pain?" Illya frowns down at him, Napoleon can almost see the wheels of his mind turning trying to understand.

"I like what comes after," he clarifies as best he can, remembering the warm that always seemed to spread from the welts, the glow of them hours and sometimes days later, the way he would loose his breath remembering the fear and anticipation that heralded the pain, just from moving the wrong way and setting the welts on fire, " _liked_ what came after." He amends, not meeting Illya's eyes.

He let's go of the Russian's hand, but instead of disappearing, it splays across his skin again, sliding up to Napoleon's ribs, where there is a beauty of a bruise courtesy of a goon's foot left over from their last assignment, the bruise already yellowing around the edges half healed but annoyingly present—and presses. The yolt of pain slices through Napoleon shaking him more than the dull pain of pressure on his sore ribs. He gasps and twists trying to get away. Illya looks down at him in confusion, lightening his touch.

"Illya? That isn't—," except that it is, Illya watches him like a hawk, only letting up when Napoleon bites back a groan of pain.

"Show me!" Illya growls, violence and hunger in his voice, the gentleness Napoleon has gotten used to receiving from the man nowhere to be found, "show me what you like."

Napoleon should say 'no', should put an end to the whole thing—at least until they've had a chance to actually talk, then Illya leans down, fitting his mouth the bruise licking away some of the pain. Once Napoleon relaxes, Illya presses on the bruise again, and repeating the action until Napoleon is dizzy with it, and the way Illya looks down at him.

"I like—marks," he gasps, tangles his fingers in Illya's hair, tugging him up and guiding Illya's mouth to the juncture of his shoulder and neck, " _reminders_ if you will." He wraps his arms around Illya's shoulders, rakes his nails across the broad back, and yanking on Illya's hair when he doesn't bite hard enough, reveling in Illya's guttural curses as he arches into the touch.

Illya's knee forces itself between Napoleon's legs, rough denim on bare skin, dragging against him, distracting Napoleon enough that Illya can catch his hands, pinning his wrists to the pillows.

"Want more?" Illya asks, licking at the bruise he had just made. Illya's hands tighten on Napoleon's wrists almost to the point that he feels his bones grinding together, tight enough to make him squirm, trying to rub himself raw against Illya's thigh.

"Yes!" Napoleon pants recklessly, baring his throat like an offering and whining shamefully when Illya doesn't bite but lets him go instead.

"Not this," the Russian judges, trailing the handle of the crop hard across Napoleon's chest before laying it carefully out of the way on the bedside cabinet.

Part of Napoleon wants to protest, wants to feel the harsh sting of the crop on his skin.

Part of him congratulates Illya on saving him from himself.

Illya studies him, like he studies paintings at the Metropolitan and targets on missions, reading things that Napoleon isn't up to hiding at that moment. With some visible effort, Illya looks away, his eyes trailing over the content of the room—not finding what he wants.

"Do not move," the finally orders, rising and leaving Napoleon bereft, shivering from the lack of Illya's body-heat.

The Russian disappears into the bathroom, soundless like a ghost, teasing possibly without meaning to. When he comes back, one hand behind him, a sweet smile on his lips barely camouflaging the predator within, he kneels at Napoleon's side.

"Roll over," he whispers, fingers curling over the bone of Napoleon's hip and tugging gently.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Napoleon can't help asking, hating the idea of being indulged. Illya—isn't the type to martyr himself, outside of work anyway, isn't the type to hide his likes and dislikes, as far as Napoleon knows.

"You doing what I tell you?" Illya teases, nuzzling at the nape of Napoleon's neck, "da." He bites unexpectedly, sinking his teeth into Napoleon's flesh right between the shoulder blades. The bristle on Illya's cheek scrapes across Napoleon's skin, leave beard-burn all the way down his spine as Illya explores.

"Pot/kettle," he huffs, arching his back to draw Illya's attention where he wants it most. The familiar sensation of the hairbrush running through his hair, has Napoleon groaning hungrily and shuddering, his whole body prickling with the rising heat. Illya chuckles against his back, running the brush along Napoleon's spine over and over. The bristles sting against the sensitized skin, stoking his need higher as Illya works until Napoleon is a puddle of relaxed muscle and simmering arousal. When the dam finally breaks and the back of the brush connects with his flesh, Napoleon cries out, the light strike echoing through his body.

Illya knows how to make it hurt terrifyingly well, goes about it methodically enough to take Napoleon's breath away and have him clawing at the sheets to keep from rocking back into the blows, which stop and turn into caresses just as he gets used to the sensation. Illya chuckles at Napoleon's sounds of displeasure, draping himself over the prone man's back to kiss his cheek.

"This what you want?" Illya growls against Napoleon's shoulder and the side of his throat, rocking his denim clad crotch against Napoleon's tender ass. The bristles of the brush feel rougher, but Napoleon can practically taste Illya's pleasure at the way he arches into his touch, "what will I see if I turn you over, Pasha?" The Russian wonders and Napoleon can visualize his grin.

"If you can't guess, we shouldn't be doing this!" He sneers, grinding deliberately into the wrinkled sheets until Illya digs his fingers into the sore flesh of his ass.

"You need more," Illya concludes, and Napoleon can't help but agree, sticking his ass up in invitation. And of course, Illya obliges, putting more force into the blows until tears spring to Napoleon's eyes and he has to grab at the headboard to keep from pulling away, from reaching back and knocking the brush out of Illya's hand. The pain turns into heat, spreading through his body and pushing everything but the awareness of Illya out of Napoleon's head. Soon, he is drifting on a crimson sea of sensation, giving into it, giving himself over to it and Illya.

Time fades, falls away until something twists, and Napoleon can see himself stretched out on the bed, Illya crouched over him sweat dripping from his brow as the brush comes down again and again. A moan escapes his throat, an animal sound that just keeps pouring out of him—until Illya flips him onto his back and muffles it with his mouth. Illya throws a leg over Napoleon's hips, puts more and more weight on Napoleon's body, putting more pressure on his sore ass and scraping Napoleon's dick raw against the rough denim of his jeans. He grabs at Illya's shoulds, claws at the broad back urging Illya closer, and closer still, barely allowing Illya to rip open the buttons of his jeans and get himself out.

"Pokagi mne!" Illya growls against Napoleon's mouth, "come on, Cowboy!" And Napoleon arches, bracing his heels against the mattress thrusting up when Illya forces his hand between their bodies and squeezes their dicks together, his hand growing slippery with sweat and pre-come.

"Illusha!" Napoleon gasps, lightheaded and drunk on his lover. He wants to tell Illya that fucking him isn't out of the question, that Napoleon, in fact, wants it, wants to give Illya as much pleasure as he'd been given. Only forming any other word but Illya's name feels far too difficult, and Illya seems content to jerk both of them off, mauling Napoleon's throat with abandon. Napoleon comes, overstimulated and gasping for air, shaking and leaving bruises on Illya's shoulders falling back to watch Illya jerk himself off almost violently over his body, then dropping like a rock next to him.

"Neploho," Illya mumbles sometime later, impressing Napoleon by not rolling over and going to sleep. He would gladly do so himself, but—he's filthy and—he's pulled onto his side to accept a sloppy kiss before being left bereft yet again as Illya rolls out of bed with a curse. He shouldn't be surprised really, Napoleon thinks, Illya is after all the practical sort who doesn't see the point of lounging around the bed after waking, and has yet to allow himself to be corrupted on that front—Napoleon considers pulling the comforter over his head, and holding on to the pleasant haze.

"No sleep," Illya grumbles, appearing at his side again, dropping a damp washcloth on Napoleon's hip. He's efficiently cleaned and prodded over to the less messy side of the bed, Illya following a tin in hand.

"Are you going to kiss it better too?" Napoleon wonders, looking over his shoulder, at the assassin rubbing cold cream on his sore ass.

"If you good, maybe later," Illya nodding to himself satisfied with his work, before tossing the tin next to the crop onto the bedside cabinet. Illya plasters himself to Napoleon's back, avoiding putting pressure on his ass, dragging the comforter over the both of them. He breathes damply against the back of Napoleon's back, awkwardly groping until he finds Napoleon's hand clasping it tightly. 

**Author's Note:**

> Russian in order:   
> Yes  
> Show me  
> Not bad


End file.
